The Sea of Love
by PleasedAsPunch
Summary: Mulder and Scully are sent to New Mexico to investigate a series of missing and returned people who claim to have experienced absurd and hyper-real illusions. What they discover there, though, has more to do with the experience between themselves. Light Angst, unapologetically romantic.
1. Chapter 1

" _Wasteland" would be a generous term_ , she thought, standing outside the passenger car door, thinking of the words the sunny young deputy told them earlier that day. She shucked her jacket, wet with sweat, and tossed it atop the car's roof.

"I think I've forgotten what the color green looks like, Mulder. Do you remember?" she asked her partner without looking at him as she gazed as far out into the hot, dry air as her eyes would let her. Brown. Brown for miles. Infinite shades of brown. Creosote bushes grew in hearty gray tufts as far as she could see, forming random patterns that, if you screwed up your eyes enough, might look like blooms of algae on the ocean.

She turned around again, unbuttoning her blouse in an effort to cool off, revealing the final layer of her less-than-desert friendly clothing: a plain white camisole.

"Mulder?" she repeated when he didn't respond, not that she was expecting an answer.

"Yeah, yeah. Scully," he responded absentmindedly, "come look here." Mulder leaned above the hood of the car, a large map spread out over almost half of it. "I think we're around here." He pointed to a line that indicated a stretch of road that, as Scully looked, seemed to have no real landmarks for miles. Not a single indication of civilization.

"I _told_ you the deputy knew what he was talking about. We shouldn't have taken your 'detour.'"

Mulder raked his hands through his hair, stepped away from the map, and sighed as he rolled his neck in an effort to crack it.

"How much gas did you say we have left, Mulder?" she continued, studying the map.

"Ten miles' worth, maybe?"

"That's not going to get us anywhere helpful," she replied dismissively, her shoulders sagging.

He scooped up that map in a sudden quick movement that ended up tearing the paper, the long fibrous ripping sound swallowed by the flat desert air as soon as it began.

"Goddamnit!" he yelled, beating the heel of his palm onto the hood of the car.

"Mulder, I didn't mean to—I mean…I'm sorry, that wasn't very constructive." She took a step forward and put her hand on his upper arm, squeezing slightly, before letting her fingers stroke soothingly over his shoulder.

He had unbuttoned and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and the knot of his tie hung loosely in his collar. There was a sheen of sweat that dappled his forehead.

"No, Scully," he started, pinching the bridge of his nose, "it's not you. You're right. It was a bad idea."

His shoulders sagged and the material of his shirt clung to the sweat on his chest and shoulders. They had come to New Mexico thinking they would be in and out quickly, spending most of their time in the air-conditioned luxury of local government buildings, maybe a couple hours in the field. Neither had been prepared for the July heat.

"At least it's a _dry_ heat," Scully had murmured with a smirk to Mulder when they had walked into the local police station two days before, mocking the deputy's earlier inane small talk upon greeting them at the airport.

The deputy was a thin string bean of a man, young, but with a great bushy mustache that aged him ten years and made him look so serious that they knew they wouldn't be able to take him that way.

They'd been called in as something of a favor; Mulder never got a very good look at the case file before leaving as Skinner had had them booked on a flight with little ado and without time to protest. It _could_ be an X-file, Mulder had thought while reading the file on the flight, but it was probably a few yokels with fantastical notions and too much time spent in the summer heat.

When they'd entered the Arenilla Police Station, a small white and gray office space peppered with dusty plastic plants and a small but real cactus on the reception desk, they met the real reason they were here: a large, burly man, thick in his limbs- Sheriff Donald Juarez.

"You must be agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. I'm Sheriff Juarez," he said gruffly, holding his hand to shake each of theirs in turn. "Thanks for coming all this way. It was a relief when Walter said you two would be more than happy to take the case."

Scully felt Mulder's body tense slightly in protest. She knew exactly what he wanted to say: "Ah, yes, Sheriff Juarez, you see, Skinner is a rat bastard who practically shoved us onto a plane. On a Saturday, no less. But yes, _more_ than happy, indeed, sir."

So instead she piped up quickly with, "It's no problem at all, Sheriff. We'd like to get started as soon as possible, do you have a space for us to work?"

"You can use the conference room in the back. I'll have Linda get you all the relevant files," he said, nodding at the pert dye-job redhead in a tight periwinkle skirt suit sitting behind reception desk. Mulder glanced over with widening eyes. Scully elbowed him again.

"Would you folks like some coffee? Better than that crap at the Bureau, I'll tell ya, but don't drink it if Deputy Wallace over here makes it. Tastes like sand."

The string-bean man with the bushy mustache, presumably Deputy Wallace, blushed fiercely, but walked over to the coffee pot anyway and began pouring two mugs of coffee.

"You've been to the Bureau?" Scully asked, surprised that a sheriff from a small town in New Mexico would have much of a reason for visiting the FBI Headquarters across the country, especially in an official enough capacity to know how truly dismal the coffee there was. "What brought you into DC?"

"Walter and I served in the Marines together. I thought he would have mentioned that. I was in town a few years ago to meet up with some of the men again. And Walter was trying to get me to work for him. Thought a look around the place might help convince me. But it's not for me."

Scully nodded and looked over to Mulder, who had been surprisingly quiet and patient while she talked idly to the sheriff as they waited for their coffee and files. Of course, as soon as she looked over at him, she realized the reason for his silence.

"Mulder!" Scully chided under her breath, elbowing him with such force this time that he wheeled around, ripping his eyes from the curvaceous Linda, and looked at Scully as if she was totally out of line.

He knew he had a tendency to just what he ought not to do exactly when he ought not to do it, particularly when it came to Scully—but what was he supposed to do when she had made abundantly clear that she was absolutely the last person who would be open to his advances? The same thing he respected about his partner was the same thing that drove him absolutely mad: professionalism to the point of iciness. He'd been trying all morning with limited success to avoid looking at the faint sheen of sweat that bloomed over her décolleté moments after they stepped into the New Mexican heat. He'd tried not to look at her bum as she stood on her toes to put her carryon in the overhead compartment. He'd even been very diligent as not to stare at the smudge of cream cheese on her full, coral lips from her bagel that morning in the airport, and instead had handed her a paper napkin and sipped dutifully at his coffee.

And then they walked into the station, who should be standing behind the front desk but a woman who looked like Scully collided with Jane Jetson? Was he not supposed to stare? Was he not supposed wonder what this Linda was trying to accomplish with her unfortunate and obviously fake red hair when it paled in comparison to the real thing, exemplified by the woman standing next to him? Was he not supposed to contemplate the curves strapped almost to bursting under dangerously tight ill-fitting periwinkle (periwinkle?!) polyester next to the soft and most likely deliciously yielding figure of one Dana Katherine Scully? In any case, his thoughts were soon interrupted by a sharp jab to his ribs. _Fantasize of the devil_ , he thought while rubbing his side, _and she shall attempt to maim you_.

They spent the next hour in the small conference room looking over the case file with Sheriff Juarez and Deputy Wallace. Five people in the last six months had reported what appeared to be larger-than-life hallucinations, "tangible illusions," they called them.

"Mrs. Hirsch, she was the first one," Deputy Wallace said, pulling out her statement. "Thirty-nine. Lives with her husband just outside of town. Two daughters in high school. She disappeared for a week, car still in the driveway, purse and wallet in the house. Thought it was a kidnapping until one afternoon her youngest daughter found her by the mailbox dressed as a Vegas showgirl."

"Sorry?" Scully said, choking slightly on her coffee. She'd read about the disappearances, but apparently Sheriff Juarez and Skinner had been saving this little nugget of information.

"She was very disoriented. Seemed to think she was due to take the stage in ten minutes. It was all very strange. We thought maybe she had run off to Vegas for a new life—tired of being a housewife and all that, but it didn't explain how she suddenly reappeared. She didn't remember how she got back home. Mrs. Hirsch was hospitalized for a couple of days before she came back to herself. Said that one afternoon while she was refilling her birdfeeder she suddenly found herself backstage at the Luxor. Couldn't find a way out of it."

"The others?" Mulder prompted.

"Mr. Ellis was the second victim," Sheriff Juarez said. "Vietnam veteran. Gone for two months—ex-wife thought he was good as dead. Later stumbled into work at the construction site in full army fatigues carrying an M16. He's since been institutionalized."

"I'm sorry, sir," Scully said, her brow furrowed, "but I'm not sure how this is a particularly unusual case, or how they're related. So far it sounds like a bored housewife bolted but then thought the better of it, and Mr. Ellis sounds like he has a mean case of PTSD, but you've given no evidence that these cased are related, or indeed, even that there's evidence of a crime."

 _Ah, here she is_ , Mulder thought: _Scully in her element_. But he, too, had to admit that the evidence, while certainly an odd set of circumstances, didn't hold up to x-files status. A thirty-nine year old Vegas show girl? A Vietnam veteran in authentic fatigues with a splattering of real blood? Both fairly unlikely, but not necessarily an x-file.

Deputy Wallace smirked slightly opening another file. "Well, it's the last three victims that got us thinking.

"Oh?" the agents asked in unison and in the same tone. Scully arched her eyebrow and looked over at Mulder. They were so spooky sometimes she often thought that she was really only one signed form away from becoming Mrs. Spooky.

"Three different people from three different sides of town—granted, we're not exactly a large place—disappeared at the same time and have purported to come back from the same place. But as far as we can tell, Mr. Martinez, Ms. Wilson, and Dr. Meyer barely knew each other."

"Where did they 'come back from,' as you say? How long were they gone?" Scully asked.

"All were gone one week," Deputy Wallace continued. "All of them said they had had tea with the Queen of England and spent time touring the country with her and the Duke of Edinburgh. Their stories matched perfectly down to the smallest of details. Even the most dedicated of conspirators would have had trouble maintaining that level of consistency."

Scully looked over to Mulder and saw him fiddling with his pencil, knowing that he was likely restraining himself from shooting it up into the ceiling tiles. He leaned back in his chair, his legs spread out: he was bored.

For her part, it was getting harder not to look at him, to ogle him. She was not an ogler. She was Dana Scully, medical doctor and FBI agent. But he was making it difficult, what with his sprawled legs and cool demeanor. Why now? Why after all these years what it suddenly becoming harder to resist? Maybe it wasn't so sudden, she thought, raking her eyes over his body as Mulder said something to the sheriff—she wasn't sure what. Maybe it was just coming to a head. Maybe it was the heat.

"Agent Mulder, are you mocking us?" Sheriff Juarez said in a tone that made Scully tear her eyes from her partner. _Shit, what had she missed?_

"I would never," Mulder countered more condescendingly than Scully would have liked. "I'm saying that likely _isn't_ alien abduction, in case you had considered that possibility. It has none of its typical trademarks."

"We like to consider _realistic_ possibilities, Agent Mulder. Walter told me you might have some unconventional methods, but you've also come highly recommended-"

"I'm terribly sorry, Sheriff Juarez, for my partner's behavior. We sometimes deal with situations that are, as you say, unconventional. I can assure you that Agent Mulder only means to help." She glared at her partner. _Just because you're bored and this obviously isn't an x-file doesn't mean you can stir the pot_ , she shouted in her mind, would that he could hear her.

While she could readily admit that the case presented an odd and even unlikely set of circumstances, she was absolutely convinced that an x-file it was not, that in a rare moment wherein the planets seemed to align, she and Mulder were actually on the same page. All the same, because Skinner had paid the expense for them to fly out and meet with Sheriff Juarez in an official capacity, they wouldn't be able to pack it in just yet. Straightening her jacket, she resolved that the would go through the motions, interview the victims, before telling the Sherriff what she really thought, that his town likely has a problem with some new hallucinogenic drug, and that they'd be handing the case over to the DEA.

Mulder studied his partner as she spoke to the Sheriff, who handed her the addresses of the so-called victims. He was not looking forward to an afternoon filled with interviewing people who, if he were being frank, had probably just had bad drugs trips and gotten in too deep. What else was there to do out here in the middle of the desert? He'd probably develop a drug habit too if he had to live in Arenilla.

But, he thought, while an afternoon spent interviewing drug addicts disguised as citizens it might be, it would also be an afternoon spent with Scully—certainly not the worst way to spend an day.

"Agent Mulder," he heard from his left, forcing him to tear his eyes away from his partner. It was Linda, who held two to-go cups of coffee and a folded slip of bright pink paper.

"I thought you might like some coffee for the road. One for your partner, too, of course, but I didn't remember how she took hers so it's just black. I put two sugars and a splash of cream in yours, though." She winked.

Yes. Hot, blistering office-made coffee was just what he wanted to be drinking out on a day like this.

"Er, thanks," he said, taking the foam cups. As he turned to the coffee station to fix Scully's coffee—if they were going to drink boiling liquid on an equally boiling day, he might as well make sure her coffee was made properly—he felt Linda's hand rest on his arm.

"Take this," she whispered, stroking his arm with her thumb before slipping the pink paper into his shirt pocket before walking back to her desk.

He turned around again, the back of his neck hot with embarrassment, to find himself looking directly at Scully, who wasn't more than six inches from him, which caused him to almost spill the coffee he was holding all over her.

"What was that about?" she asked. She took the cup that Linda meant for him, but it was just as well because somewhere along the line they started taking their coffee the same way.

"I'm not really sure," he replied honestly, but before he could stop her, she filched the paper from his pocket:

555-0296

I'm free after 5 o'clock.

xox Linda

"Oh," she said. Her mouth was suddenly very dry. As much as she was reluctant to spend a day wasting their time, she had been glad to be wasting her time with Mulder. Or she was. But now…

"I'll just meet you in the car." She tucked the paper back into his pocket, grabbed the files, and walked out of the front glass doors to the rental car the police department had secured for them.

Mulder fumbled with the pink note that was quickly becoming more trouble than it was worth.

 _Oh_ , he thought to himself as he read it and followed her out the door. He crumbled the paper in his hand and threw it into the ash urn-cum-trash can sitting next to a planter full of petunias that had seen better days. He shouldn't have looked so…intently…at Linda. He'd obviously given her the wrong idea, and now it seemed that he'd given Scully the wrong idea, too.

 _Could Scully be jealous?_ he wondered, a notion that sounded ludicrous on several levels. She was probably just irritated that he'd gotten distracted so easily, making her job harder. In any case, she _had_ to know that he'd never be serious about some like Linda—not that she wasn't likely a wonderful person, but he didn't even know her. Surely Scully knew that if he was going to spend his off-hours with anyone, it was with her, with Scully. That was kind of their thing: work until their eyelids felt like lead, then pass out in front of a bad movie at one of their places, the one whose place it wasn't bailing before morning like it was a commandment set in stone.

Scully sat in the driver's side seat, the engine on and the air blowing, her eyes closed as the cool air blasted over her face, causing short wisps of her hair to tickle her cheeks.

She heard the passenger door pop, felt the slight dip of the car as Mulder folded himself into the seat, and the dull crunching sound of the car door closing.

"Nice in here," he said. She opened her eyes to find him sitting patiently beside her, no cracks about wanting to drive. She had to fight the urge to goad him, to say, "So, are you going to call her?" but she smothered the words. It wasn't her business anyway. What he got up to after work didn't concern her, even though, lately, he'd been spending most of his time with her. Maybe he wasn't just bored of this case; maybe he was getting bored of _her_. She could understand that. And it wasn't as though Linda was bad looking. Too much makeup for her taste, maybe, but pretty all the same.

"Where to first, partner?" he asked with a grin, taking a sip of his coffee, then cringing when he realized it was still black because he had forgotten to fix it before leaving.

"Thought we'd go in chronological order. Mrs. Hirsch first." That's what she'd do, she thought. Just get down to business. She could even have him back by five if he was so inclined.

"Right," he replied. "Sounds reasonable." He frowned slightly when she took the car out of park and they drove out of the police parking lot. If she didn't want to talk about it, they wouldn't. He was a grown man and she was a grown woman—boy, was she ever. He watched her lips purse in concentration (was it concentration or was it frustration?) as she studied the street signs. They weren't far from Mrs. Hirsch's home, and the layout of the town was a perfect grid— the result of becoming incorporated after Eisenhower's meticulous road planning became ingrained in city planning. The road signs, however, were few and far between, the mark of a small town where everyone knew where they were by virtue of having been born within the town limits.

Scully looked intent to avoid whatever conversation that wasn't absolutely necessary, which more than anything made him angry if just because it didn't give him the excuse of conversation to study her face: the high arch of her cheekbones and the soft, plump swell of her lips, all crowned by her bright, almost ethereal eyes. He had it bad, he thought, and somehow he'd messed it up without even trying.

The afternoon shaped up to be exactly as they both thought it would. They listened to more or less the same stories as recorded by the police, each victim swearing adamantly that no, they had not experimented with hallucinogenic drugs.

"The lady doth protest too much," Scully murmured after they were thrown out of Dr. Meyer's home, causing Mulder to chuckle. Maybe they were okay, he thought. Back to normal: two steps back followed by two steps forward; that was them. He'd take it.

It was 4:45 when Scully pulled the car back into the police station.

"Not straight to the motel?" Mulder asked.

"No, I wanted to return the case files to Sheriff Juarez and tell him we'll be turning the case over. I take it you agree with this course of action?" she asked, her voice stiffening slightly.

"Yeah, sure, but could you have done that from the motel? We skipped lunch and I'm starving."

Scully paused. "I thought…" she started. "I thought you might want to get back here before five. You know, she said she got off then." She tried very hard to keep her voice neutral. She had no claim on Mulder, and she certainly didn't need to be validated by his acceptance or affection.

So she hadn't let it go, he thought, smothering a sigh.

"Why would I want to go out with Linda?" he asked. "I don't know her."

Scully's fingers tightened on the wheel.

"You practically did nothing but gawk at her all morning, Mulder."

"Christ, Scully!" he cried, a day's worth of tension releasing, causing her to flinch. "Of course I was staring! She was wearing a periwinkle suit! Who wouldn't stare?"

She rolled her eyes.

"I don't want to go out with Linda," he said emphatically. "I threw out her number before I even got in the car with you. What I want to do is go get some dinner at that diner we passed earlier. I want to get a cheeseburger. Or meatloaf. Maybe both. And I also want to eat those things while you sit across from me poking your fork at your sad-looking house salad while chiding me for practically signing my own death warrant with each cholesterol-ridden bite, and then I want to go check in to the motel and watch whatever garbage is on TV while you sit at your laptop typing away about or little non-case until you finally give up and sit on the bed with me and we fall asleep."

"Oh," was all she could muster after an extended beat of silence.

"Yeah, 'oh.'" He stared straight ahead, looking at the cinderblock walls of the station.

"You know, Mulder," she whispered, looking over to him. "I suppose meatloaf kind of does sound pretty good right now."

They fell asleep to a Saturday Night Live rerun. When he woke up, she was gone as usual, and the soft hum of the morning news filled the room. It was eight in the morning, and he was surprised to have slept that long. He'd been sleeping better lately since their late-night movie sessions had started, but realizing she was gone, as he always did, he became fully awake.

With the case now out of their hands, they had a day to kill before their flight the next morning. They could probably reschedule one to fly out this afternoon, but that would involve calling Skinner and notifying him of the case status, and risk being ordered to stay on it. Why not just burn a day on the government's dime? It sounded like a good plan to him.

It was not, however, as they would discover seven hours later, a good plan.

"Roswell," he had said through a mouthful of eggs.

"Roswell?" Scully returned after swallowing her bite of toast and taking a sip of diner coffee. "You want to go to Roswell? It's like two hundred miles from here."

"And we have spades of time! What do you say, Scully? A little field trip, maybe find ourselves a real x-file? I feel like we got ripped off by Uncle Sam this time." He wagged his eyebrows, giddy as a schoolboy. She couldn't begrudge him anything when he looked so cute.

Cute? Yes, Mulder could be cute. He regularly was in an obsessive, helpless kind of way.

They finished their breakfasts and paid the bill before they met the deputy at the station to return the files and borrow a map.

"Stay on the main road," the deputy had told them. "The Interstate is your best friend out here."

But Mulder had a shortcut. Mulder often had shortcuts, and now they were practically stranded in the middle of a desert wasteland, almost out of gas, and miles away from the Interstate, let alone Roswell. At this rate, they weren't going to make their morning flight out of Santa Fe.

"Mulder, I'm getting back in the car," Scully said. "I'm starting to burn and it hurts."

He nodded, angry with himself. This was not how he imagined this day going. It was supposed to be "Have Fun with Scully" Day and "Show Scully That for Once You're Not a Total Asshole" Day, or even "Play Your Cards Right and Maybe She'll Give You That Wickedly Sexy Smile She Doesn't Even Realize She Does When You Say Something Ridiculous" Day. It turned out to be none of those days, and now Scully was starting to burn red as a tomato. Even if they could find their way back to civilization on their now-ripped map, they didn't have enough gas to get them there. Why did she ever humor him? Why did she keep saying 'yes' to his idiotic ideas? The pooch had been most thoroughly screwed on this occasion.

He rounded the car to find Scully sitting in the back sea, so he popped open the door and sat alongside her. It was sweltering, but at least it was out of direct sunlight.

"Here," she said, passing him her bottle of water. He took a small sip as it was their last one, and he didn't know how long they were going to be out here.

"Just think," he said, passing the bottle back, "of all the hell we've been through, it'll be death by desert heat for us."

"We're not going to _die_ , Mulder," she said, pulling her hair up off of her neck. It felt nice. If she closed her eyes, she could almost feel a breeze. Almost.

Mulder looked over to find Scully fanning the back of her neck futilely with her hand, the fine, baby soft hair there dewed lightly with sweat.

"Let me help," he said, and without thinking, he pursed his lips and blew softly on the back of her neck.

"Mulder," she gasped. "What are you-"

"Sorry, I…" he paused, suddenly aware that it was somehow impossibly twenty degrees hotter than it already was.

"No—no, it felt good."

His breath caught in his throat. What was happening? What were they doing? He silenced that thought train—too far and either one of them might have time enough to come to their senses. He blew out again, the air whistling between his lips. She shuddered.

"That's absolutely wonderful." He did it again, this time his hand replacing hers to hold up her hair. His fingers spread over her scalp, her hair slick and smooth between them. He felt Scully's hand snake over his thigh, stroking the fine grey wool of his dress pants.

It was when he heard her let out an involuntary groan when she stopped, wrenching her hand away from his leg.

 _What were they doing?_ she thought, riding a wave of panic.

He sensed her tension and pulled away. Now he'd really done it. An inch too far, a touch too familiar. He blew it, and not in the fun way.

"Maybe you should have said yes to Linda," Scully said with a grim smile, disengaging herself from him completely. His touch was too much. It was too warm. "At least then you wouldn't be sitting out here in this heat while I sweat all over you."

He frowned. How was he supposed to say that he'd rather be rotting with her in the desert any day than being anywhere with Linda without sounding corny and desperate or making her flee the car into the desert to her certain death?

"Your sweat doesn't bother me," he responded. _Wow_ , _nice one_ , he thought, the heat of embarrassment once again creeping over him. She finally turned around to him and raised an eyebrow.

"That's good to know, I guess," she replied. "Maybe we ought to keep driving. You know, we might stumble upon something not marked on the map. And if we run out of gas without happening upon civilization, at least we'll be well and truly stranded. If there's one thing true about us, it's that we don't do things halfway."

Her last sentence died a bit in her throat as she finished. What were they to each other? Surely whatever they were counted as something halfway. It wasn't even as if they were in some kind of limbo; it was like they were in a relay race but neither knew who was supposed to start first.

"Yeah, let's drive. If I'm going to desiccate in the desert, Scully, I'd want to desiccate with you."

She laughed: a full throaty laugh. Leave it to Mulder to turn a bad situation into an even worse joke in the best way. She felt a wave of relief mottled with disappointment. They were back in familiar territory for them.

"Very romantic, Mulder," she said, and they moved back up to the front seats.

They drove. Their trip wouldn't be very long—ten or fifteen minutes and they would know what degree of trouble they were really doomed for.

"Mulder, stop!" she yelled as they came to the top of a small hill. "Look!"

Ahead of them, not two-hundred yards away, was a great adobe building painted teal, a sign by the road with pink neon lettering reading "The Oasis". As they drove closer, they saw there were a few cars in the lot, and a smaller neon sign below the first reading "Vacancy".

"Oh, thank goodness," she said, her hand, she realized, grasped tightly around Mulder's over the center console. Neither bothered to disengage.

"No desiccation for us today!" he said cheerily. "Think we should stay the night, or just look into refueling and getting directions?"

It was nearing four o'clock, and neither knew how long it was going to take to get back, not really having any idea where they were.

She shrugged. "Depends on how long it will take to get a gas truck out here, unless they have their own pump? Anyway, I'm starving and thirsty and I wouldn't a mind a shower, either. I'd be willing to get a room just for that."

Mulder nodded and pulled into the parking lot. She released his hand so he could park and turn off the ignition.

"If you want to go look into getting a room, I can go see about gas. It looks like they have some kind of restaurant, too, so maybe we can eat and then think about hitting the road if we can?"

"Sure," she replied, shutting the passenger door. He smiled. "Oh, and Mulder," she called as he turned way. She reached to his far arm and pulled him around, pushing herself up onto the tips of her toes to plant a kiss on his cheek, before turning and walking in the opposite direction.

He thought for a moment to ask her what it was for, what he'd done to deserve it so he could do it again, but he chose not to risk it, and smiled as she walked away into the building. He said it before and he'd say it again: he had it bad.

Inside was a place like she'd never seen. It was sort of like stepping into a casino in Reno but without any of the slot machines. Like the outside, the walls were painted teal, but here and there was an occasional purple accent wall. It was garish, but the dark walls were counterbalanced with bright lights that flashed and vined throughout the lobby.

There were planters full of palm fronds and ferns that surrounded small, gurgling water features like the ones in shopping malls, their coppery smell saturating the air. And fish tanks. The fish tanks would put Mulder's to shame. There were at least five from what she could see, and they all contained what looked like an impressive diversity of tropical fish, each tank furnished with neon-colored gravel and plastic seaweed.

It was busy. The guests weaved through the lobby; some held cocktails, some were dressed to the nines; others dressed more like Scully was, but almost all of them were laughing. What _was_ this place? Some secret desert getaway not mentioned on any maps? But then, the fact that it wasn't on their map didn't mean much. Just because something wasn't on a map didn't mean it didn't exist.

She walked up to the front desk and rang the bell, which was answered promptly by a small man in a purple vest and matching trousers.

"Welcome to The Oasis, how can I help you today?" he asked, smiling broadly.

"Hi, um, my partner and I…we've been traveling all day and we seem to have gotten lost. Your sign said you had rooms open, so I was looking to book one. I'm not even certain we'll be staying the night, but I wanted to clean up a bit."

"Of course! You're in luck: we have one room left. Third floor. One bed. Would that be okay?"

She nodded and handed him her FBI-issued credit card, which he swiped and handed back to her. As long as they weren't spending the night, she thought, that arrangement should be fine.

"You don't happen to have a gas pump here, do you?" she asked in case Mulder got distracted and forgot to find out.

"Yes, M'am! We're full service here."

"That's wonderful," she said with evident relief. "Is it around back?"

The man nodded and handed her a key. "Are there any bags I can help you with…" he looked at her credit card information, "Ms. Scully?"

As she shook her head, she saw Mulder stride in the front door, spotting her immediately and walking over in just a handful of long steps. Great, _great_ legs, she caught herself thinking.

He smiled at her and placed his hand on the small of her back, a comforting and familiar gesture in a strange place.

"Pump at the back of the building. Filled her up," he said with a cocky smile of victory. "Did you manage to get a room?"

"Third floor," she responded as she jingled the key, her mouth twitching into a grin that mirrored her partner's. "I'm going to go take that shower, want to join me?"

"Agent Scully, I thought you'd _never_ ask."

Her eyes grew large as she realized what she had said.

"No!" Backpedal! Backpedal! "I _meant_ do you want to come up to the room with me, or were you going to go straight to the restaurant?"

He had the audacity to look disappointed, sheepish, even. "Meet you in the restaurant?"

She smiled in return, and her heart returned to something close to its normal pace. "Grab me a beer, will you?" she asked, turning around, feeling like she just avoided a close call, and pressed the up button on the elevator.

Behind the restaurant bar was an enormous fish tank. There were a few fish that he recognized—a couple clownfish, a butterfly fish, a foxface, and a bunch of gobies, as well as several fish he'd never seen before. He picked an iridescent periwinkle-colored fish, named it Linda, and then refused to look at it again. He was very satisfied with himself for having thought of it.

Mulder ordered a beer for himself—just the one, as he'd most likely be driving—and one for Scully, who was still upstairs showering.

 _Want to join me?_ he replayed in his head for the umpteenth time. He knew she hadn't meant it as it sounded when she said it, but he realized the second that she had that he wished she had meant it how it sounded. He realized that he was tired of looking and wanted to touch, not just graze his fingers over her skin—he wanted to grab, to squeeze, to knead…

…perchance to dream. He laughed to himself, shaking his head, and pulled another swallow of beer.

His want for her was verging on need, maybe had crossed that line already. He didn't even know; being around Scully messed with his head. He finished off his beer and motioned the bartender for another. Scully could drive. It was her turn anyway. He needed this.

What were they doing? They'd been partners for years. Close enough to touch, but with what seemed like galaxies between them. Every universe had a constant, didn't it? This one had entropy. Washington had bureaucracy. The desert had heat. The sea had water. Mulder had Scully. That's just how it was: a law of the universe, his universe— but the thing about constants, he was realizing, was that they can be horribly easy to take for granted.

He stared into the gurgling water of the fish tank. Who the fuck was Linda anyway? A stupid periwinkle fish who gave him her number. Or something. It didn't matter.

But Scully, there was a fish for you. Small, but not to be underestimated. Red, probably, too, or blue. Either way, Scully was a fish he loved. _Loved_. There you have it, folks. Fox Mulder loved Dana Scully, and he was probably the last to know.

As the bartender put down a second beer on coaster, he turned to see Scully walk into the restaurant. Her hair was still wet and her face now bright and free of makeup. She was beautiful, not more or less than she usually was, just perfect—constant.

She saw him, walked over to the bar, and climbed up onto the barstool, her feet dangling without purchase.

"Thanks," she said, taking a long pull of the beer he had ordered for her.

"Good shower?"

She gulped—swallowing her beer or a symptom of something else?

"Great. Could have taken a nap after. I didn't realize how tired I was until after I was clean. You should take one before we leave."

"Scully, are you saying that I _smell_?" he asked before sipping his beer.

Suddenly he felt an aura of warmth by his neck and looked down to find Agent Dana Scully's nose an inch away from his skin, sniffing at him deeply. He flinched upon realizing she was there, but then stilled as she lingered.

He didn't smell, she thought. He smelled _good_. Like Mulder. A little like sweat, faintly of beer, but mostly of something else she couldn't quite name except for, well, knowing that it smelled like him.

"Hmm, no. I suppose you pass."

Her shower could not have been more frustrating. Upon entering the room, which was nice but small, she stripped silently and quickly, draping her clothes over a chair. There was no chance they'd have time to air-out to proper freshness anyway.

The water was warm and the shower clean—a nice change from their usual motel arrangements, but as the warm water beat down on her back, washing away the sweat and desert dust, all she could think of was the sensation of cool air as he blew softly on the back of her neck, the slight tug on her scalp as Mulder had threaded his fingers through her hair. _More_ , she wanted more, and she had stopped him.

But why had she? Barring professional considerations and roadblocks, the fact that Mulder could be a man obsessed, the fact that his eyes wandered but never, it seemed, over to her, why had she stopped him?

Because of Linda and people like her? Maybe. No. Was it fear? Yes, definitely. But it wasn't that simple. Mulder wasn't a fear to overcome. She feared his rejection, she feared their partnership culminating in awkward ruin, but she wasn't afraid of Mulder. He was her best friend.

How, then, do you tell your best friend that you want him to touch you, to make you keen and shiver? How do you tell him that you love him, that you think you always have, and that it's become more and more difficult to ignore? How do you tell him those things and make him listen, really, truly listen, to save him from distraction and the hurt and loss that inspires it? How do you tell your best friend that you will hurt with him, for him, and beside him, for however long he wants, no strings attached, without making it really, fabulously awkward? How do you tell your best friend that you love him completely when love has injured him profoundly?

She reached down between her legs caught between the urge to touch herself and the embarrassment that she had become so aroused so quickly. She slid her fingers between her folds, skimming the perimeter of the tight bud at their apex. She circled once, twice, dipping them inside her center. She was wet, so wet, and she rubbed harder, faster, trying to feel more, _now_.

But she couldn't. She wanted; oh, she wanted so badly that she suspected it wasn't want at all, but pure need. She needed to feel him, for his hands to run over her sides, her hips, his long fingers making the journey hers had just attempted. Would he be gentle or would he be careless with the urgency of possession? Would he take her there against the shower wall, or would he take his time, lay her damp body on the bed and fuck her slowly?

She imagined him standing behind her, his hands braced on the sides of her hips, fingers spread wide, claiming her. His nose bumping against her back, dragging over her skin as he inhaled, his hardness pressing against her bottom, hot and impatient. She shuttered, slamming her fist against the wall. It wasn't enough. It wasn't real. It wasn't him.

Scully remembered him yesterday—was it only yesterday?—standing in the Arenilla Police Station, his eyes raking over the voluptuous Linda, just as he had so many women before, just as he did with his videos. Why was it so different this time? Why is it that Linda had set her off and not the ones that came before?

Turning off the water, Scully toweled herself off and stepped out of the shower, shook out her clothes, and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked tired and felt tired. No, she felt exhausted: her heart, her mind. She was weary.

"Do you want to grab a table?" Mulder asked as she took another sip of beer. He was hungry and knew that she was too, and if she was going to be the one driving them back to Arenilla, he figured she probably shouldn't be drinking on an empty stomach.

"Yes, I'm famished," she said, pushing herself up from the bar. As she spoke he noticed a look in her eye, one that made him feel sad. He couldn't place it exactly. Perhaps she was still angry with him about yesterday. He didn't want that.

So he took her hand in his.

"Mulder, what are you doing?" she asked now standing beside him.

"I'm holding your hand and I am taking you out for dinner."

She raised a suspicious eyebrow. "You mean you're taking me over _there_ for dinner?" she said, pointing over the partition between the restaurant and the bar.

"Yeah, but _I'm_ paying. Put the company card away. No Uncle Sam meal ticket for us."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say this sounded like a date," she teased.

He paused for a moment and looked down at her, his head cocked to the side.

"You know, yes. That's _exactly_ what this is. Good idea, Scully."

"What are you doing?" she asked again more insistently this time as he pulled her to the hostess area.

"Table for two, please," he said.

"Smoking or non?" the small brunette hostess asked.

"Non," Mulder replied. "Unless you've developed a habit in the last hour, Scully?" He winked at her in a way that made her knees feel like jelly, which made her only capable of giving him a half-hearted scowl in return.

They followed the hostess to a small table in the corner of the restaurant where it was quiet.

"I told you yesterday that I wanted to have dinner with you, but I don't think meatloaf at a diner really counts. _This_ counts, Scully. That was a meal. This is _dinner_."

Scully never thought she heard the word dinner sound more loaded in her entire life. What was he up to?

"Dinner?" she questioned.

"Dinner _date_ ," he corrected.

She laughed. "Is it really a date if it not five minutes ago it was intended as a non-date?"

"Absolutely it is," he said. He moved for her hand across the table and held it gently.

"Mulder, what's going on? What are we doing right now?"

His eyes softened. "You know that I'm sorry about Linda, right? It didn't mean anything-"

She began to pull away. "Mulder, that stuff is really none of my business. I'm sorry I was angry with you. I shouldn't have reacted like that."

Mulder grabbed for her hand again. "Scully, stop, I'm trying to say something."

"Well?" For some reason she was starting to feel slightly annoyed. What was going on with him? What was going on between them?

"Linda didn't mean anything. No one really ever has. Except you."

"What are you saying?" Her heart leapt up in her chest and did a backflip, and she hoped to God that it would stick the landing. It was something of a relief when the food they ordered arrived, mouthfuls of which prevented them from talking much beyond appreciation of the food.

After the waiter cleared their plates, Scully felt sated and full, warm and relaxed, even dreamy.

"Oh, wow," she heard Mulder say, pulling her back into reality. "I haven't heard this song since, I don't know, college?"

Scully listened closely.

 _Do you remember when we met?_

 _That's the day I knew you were my pet._

 _I wanna tell you how much I love you_.

"They played this at one of our winter formals in college!" she said as she laughed, remembering the song instantly. "It's so _terrible_."

"The hair on Robert Plant? That I'll give you is pretty terrible. But The Honeydrippers? Scully, you wound me."

"I never imagined you were one to listen to crooners." She laughed, enjoying the opportunity to rib him a little and without consequence. It felt easy here with him, natural and right.

"Dance with me, Scully," he asked abruptly.

"What?"

"Come on, dance with me." He stood up and pushed his chair back, holding out his hand.

"But we're in the middle of a restaurant."

"So? Come on. Please?"

She pushed herself out of her seat and tentatively, if a little reluctantly, took his hand, and even though she could feel herself blush slightly from people watching them, as soon as she pressed herself into his arms, it didn't matter.

 _Come with me, my love_

 _To the sea, the sea of love._

 _I wanna tell you_

 _how much I love you._

She was warm against his body, her cheek lying on his chest. He put one arm around her and placed his hand on the small of her back but lower than usual. He waited for her to swat his hand away, but she didn't. Nothing had ever felt so perfect. She fit into his arms like she was meant to be there, like she was finally assuming the space that had been there just for her the entire time, sinking in to the Scully-shaped pocket in his heart.

They rocked back and forth next to their table. They were getting looks, but he didn't really care. This is what he had been waiting for, what he wanted so desperately, to hold her and touch her, and yet it wasn't enough. He needed her to be his; he needed her to know that there was never truly anyone else, that there never would be.

"This is nice," she whispered into his shirt. "You smell good."

"Oh yeah? So maybe I won't take a shower." He pulled his head back just enough to place a kiss on her forehead.

With closed eyes, she smiled in appreciation, and he stood agog at her beauty. It wasn't a surprise to him, but to see her so close, to see her smile in his arms, to respond to him and watch pleasure melt over her features, he wasn't sure he'd make the evening through alive.

She dragged her fingers up and down his spine through his shirt, eliciting an involuntary shudder the same way she had earlier in the car. He remembered the hot desert heat, the sticky sweat that her skin was now clean of, left instead with a soft pink glow of a slight sunburn.

"Scully?" he whispered, nuzzling the top of her head with his nose.

"Mmm?"

"Can I kiss you?" he asked tentatively. Her head jerked up and she opened her eyes, blue and—he chuckled inwardly at the hopeless sap he was becoming—fathomless. The corner of her mouth quirked into a smile and she pressed a soft kiss onto his chest before looking up at him again.

" _Please_ ," she breathed. Her heart pounded in her chest. She was sure he could feel it. Her neck and face felt suddenly hot with anticipation as he brought one hand behind her head, the other cupping her cheek.

The song was over, but neither noticed as he touched his lips to hers. She pressed up on her toes to compensate for the difference in their height. It was a soft, chaste kiss, or it was until Scully found her arms flying over his shoulders and around his neck, pulling him closer, their lips slipping gracelessly together.

In some distant corner of his mind he heard somebody wolf-whistle along with a couple of gasps, but he could barely work up the energy to pay attention, not when he had Scully pressed against him, kissing him fiercely in the middle of a kitschy desert hotel. _Ah_ , he thought, he might not mind their situation so much, but they were working on getting themselves into a pretty compromising position, and Scully, he knew, would definitely mind.

"Hey, Scully," he whispered, pulling away just enough to form words. "We should take this somewhere else. I think we're putting on a bit of a show."

Her eyes widened and she looked around. She was now standing tiptoe on top of Mulder's shoes, which apparently he didn't seem to mind, and her body was pushed up against his entire frame.

"Um, yes," she said, stepping down, face beet red.

Mulder pulled out his wallet and slapped enough money to cover the bill onto the table, took her hand again, and together they rushed out of the hotel restaurant.

"What number did you say the room was?" he asked hitting the elevator button.

"Three-ten."

"Right, good." As soon as the elevator doors closed, he had her pinned to wall, his arms pressed against it on either side of her head. He kissed her again hungrily, and she reciprocated, the tension of the afternoon unleashing in an instant.

When the elevator doors opened she fumbled for the room key, her hands shaking with anticipation, with nerves, with confusion in the back of her mind that she was trying desperately not to think about. Finally, she opened the door to the room and they practically burst into it.

He lifted her small body into his arms and deposited her on the bed, climbing to hover over her.

"Mulder, wait," she gasped as he began to attack her neck with his mouth. With a frustrated groan he pushed to move off of her, but she stilled him. "No, don't move, it's just…"

"What's wrong?" His eyes were still dilated with arousal, but his face softened, and he smoothed his thumb over her cheek.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"Why now? Why _me_?"

"What do you mean, Scully?" he asked, pushing himself up to a sitting position and pulling her up with him.

"I know…I know that as partners we work together well. And I know that you care about me, and that I care about you—so much, Mulder. But we've never…you've never…you've never been interested in me in this way. Not really, not for real."

"What are you talk-"

"No, let me finish, please."

He nodded.

Scully looked down at her hands in her lap. "What I'm trying to say is…this behavior towards me, when you kiss me and touch me, I like it. I like it a _lot_ , but what's to say that you won't get distracted by another woman or a case…then what? That's why I pulled away from you earlier in the car. I can't be just another body to you, Mulder…so what I'm asking you is why are we doing this right now?"

When she looked up, she saw the forming storm in his eyes soften by something so tragic that her throat caught and stifled a sob. If she wasn't mistaken, she'd seen that look in his eyes many times before. It was surely heartbreak.

"Scully…Scully you'd _never_ be just another body to me. Hell," he said, raking a hand through his hair, "there hasn't _been_ another body since…"

"Since when, Mulder?"

He brought his face as close to hers as he could manage. "Since about six months after I met you."

"What? That long? Why?"

"Why do you think, Scully?"

"I…"

"Scully, the reason why this is happening now…is that I couldn't stand it when you thought that there could have been something going on, even if just flirtation, between me and Linda. Christ, Scully. How could there be when I have you? No woman has ever meant anything to me like you do. What do I have to do to convince you? I know that you're a skeptic, Scully, and I love that about you. But why won't you believe me when I tell you that I love you?"

Her breath caught in her throat again. "Because, Mulder. You've never actually said that you love me."

"I thought it was obvious."

She laughed. "There are a lot of obvious things about you. Your beliefs, for one, the love you have for your sister, and your nose-"

"Hey, watch it."

"I _love_ your nose. But you've never been obvious about anything else. For every touch, Mulder, for every intimacy we've ever had, there's an equal and opposite smirk or dismissal. For every reason you give me to think that you might love me, there's another that tells me to stay back and keep my distance."

"I just-" He put his face in his hands, wiping them down his eyes and cheeks. "Before, before yesterday, that is—Scully, I've always wanted you, and eventually, somewhere along the line, I realized that I _needed_ you, I _still_ need you. But I guess—I know that you're not temporary. You could never be temporary to me. And that's terrifying, isn't it? Knowing that if I ever began something with you, it would be for as long as you would have me, if you would have me in the first place. And what if I lost you, Scully? That's all we do these days. Lose people we care about."

She was silent for a long moment. "I think we began something a long time ago. It's too late. I jumped ship with you ages ago." She crawled over to him on the bed, sitting on his lap so that she faced him with her legs straddled on either side of his waist. Taking his head in her hands, she grazed her lips under his eyes, her nose rubbing against his.

"Scully…" he breathed. They rested their foreheads together, breathing slowly, not wanting to let the moment end. He raked his hands over her back through her blouse. "Scully, I want you." He sounded breathless, desperate even. She could feel his hardness against her crotch. It was so good. It was surreal. It was everything she had imagined only an hour ago, now becoming real.

"Yes, Mulder, please," she moaned. She trailed her hands down his chest and worked at the buttons on his shirt, pushing it aside and off his arms. He was so lean, so masculine, and she ran her fingers over his chest, catching his nipples between her fingers. Thank god he forwent an undershirt today.

"Sculllly," he groaned. He kissed her—harder than he had before, harder than he had in the elevator. It was possessive and frantic, as if he were worried that in any moment she would disappear into thin air.

Mulder slipped his hands under her blouse, pushing it up and over her head, throwing it across the room he didn't care where. His hands were all over her, caressing her creamy skin that smelled like soap. She worked on his pants, fiddling with the button and zipper until frustration took over and she pushed him back on the bed so he lay on his back. With one sure movement, she pulled them clean off and threw them off the end of the bed.

"Much better," she said, a look of smug satisfaction on her face that was wiped clean as soon as she got a good look at the whole figure of who lay before her. He was straining against his boxers, and he stared at her with dangerous intent, as if daring her to make her move.

Instead she jumped off the bed and hooked her fingers in the waistband of her own trousers, pulling them down and off so that she stood before him in her panties and bra.

He had, at least, the good sense to gulp.

"Do you like what you see, Mulder?" she asked, climbing over him so that her cotton-covered breasts hung tantalizingly above him. But as she snaked further up his body she suddenly found her world shift on its axis so that it was _she_ with her back on the bed.

"I do, Agent Scully," he said, palming a breast with his full hand. "But I'm afraid it will require more investigation.

Even through the haze of lust, she couldn't pass up the opportunity for a rejoinder. "Professional courtesy, of course," she responded with mock seriousness.

Scully arched her back upwards as he moved his hand behind her to unhook her bra. This was it, he thought to himself. Who needed to see the Seven Wonders when he had Dana Scully in such a state of dishabille? He lifted her bra off to reveal her breasts. Oh God, he thought, with one look he was done. Out of commission. Resigned to Dana Katherine Scully forever and ever, amen.

He ran his hands up her ribs, skirting along the bottom curve of her breasts, white and full, with small pink peaks that matched exactly the color of her lips. Shaking with desire, he circled her nipples with his fingers, teasing, before replacing them with his mouth.

She moaned loudly, obscenely, she thought, into the relative silence of the room. His mouth was so good, so hot and wet, making her buck up against his hips.

"Oh, God, Mulder, yes," she cried as he suckled lightly, taking the tip between his teeth and biting oh so gently. Her fingers dragged over his upper back, making gooseflesh erupt over its expanse, sending a fresh bolt of lust right down to his cock. His mouth continued to work, but his hand trailed its way down her side and eventually to the top of her panties.

"Scully," he whispered in question, seeking permission to go further.

"Yes, please."

His fingers slipped under her panties, feeling the rise of her mons, the thatch of hair, and finally the heat of her center. She was wet, so wet. He found the bud of nerves there, but didn't touch it, instead moving his fingers into a V, pressing the flesh surrounding it causing her hips to jerk up again.

"Scully you're so wet. You're so beautiful," he said, removing his lips from her nipple, and slipped her panties down her legs. He moved down her body, pausing to lick her navel, and pulled her body down the bed, bending her knees so that her legs fell open, revealing herself to him.

"Mulder-" she started, leaning up to stop him.

"Shh, Scully, I want to do this." He smiled and looked up at her flushed face and watched her nod almost imperceptibly.

As she leaned back onto the bed, he licked her once from slit to clit with the flat of his tongue. She groaned and squirmed, hips jerking up beyond her control. He licked again, parting her folds with his tongue, gauging the taste of her. She was sweet and tangy—musky, but not in an unpleasant way. It was pure Scully, everything he had fantasized magnified tenfold.

She gasped when he attacked her clitoris with his lips, sucking mercilessly. Suddenly she felt one finger, then two work their way inside of her, stroking her walls. She could hear the sound of her wetness, one of the most erotic things she'd ever heard. The tension of her imminent orgasm was coiling tightly inside of her. He stroked harder, sucked harder and suddenly she was gone, flying, a rush of warmth cascading over her body and she screamed, really, actually screamed. If she had been coherent, she might have actually been embarrassed. But not now, not with Mulder.

After a few moments she came back to the world, her breath still labored and her cheeks completely flushed. She opened her eyes to see Mulder above her, his face and nose wet with her juices while wearing a shit-eating grin.

"Was that good, Scully?"

She groaned. She would smack that grin off his face if she had the energy. But she also had to give credit where credit was due. It was part of her job, after all.

"I don't think I've ever come harder in my life," she said, reaching to bring him down for a kiss. She could taste herself, and she had to admit it turned her on. She reached between their bodies, her own slick with sweat—not the unpleasant kind from earlier—and took him in her hand, stroking him, the soft skin of his cock moving deliciously in her palm.

"Scully," he cried, gasping and jerking slightly.

He was ready. He wanted to be inside of her. He needed it, and he needed it now. He was so hard that it almost hurt, wanting nothing more than to bury himself deep as he could go. Home, that's where he wanted to be, where he was going to go.

"Scully, please," he begged. He moved so that he was cradled between her legs. With her hand, she guided him to her opening. He nudged in slowly, spreading her gradually.

Finally she couldn't take it anymore. She needed all of him, every inch she could possibly accommodate. "Mulder, more," she croaked between barred teeth. It hurt a little taking him in, but in a pleasant, fulfilling kind of way, the kind of way that would leave her sore in the morning.

She was perfect. He felt as though his eyes were rolling back in his head. "Mulder, more," she'd said, her voice so gravely his control slipped, and he slammed into her as far as he was able, filling her completely. By some miracle she managed to take all of him; he could feel her feet against his ass, her toes curling, a scream ripping from her throat in either pleasure or pain—he wasn't sure.

"Are you okay?" he gasped. It was difficult to speak. She nodded.

"Give me a second." She closed her eyes, her breathing returning to as normal as it possibly could be, and eventually she pressed her feet against his bum, urging him to move.

"Go now," she whispered. He began to move. Her heat was like nothing he'd ever experienced. It was so perfect; they fit so perfectly. He knew he wasn't going to last very long. His control was slipping faster and faster. Their rhythm was hard and fast, rough and fierce. This wasn't just sex, he thought in some corner of his mind that was still capable of coherent thought, he was marking her and she was marking him. They were choosing each other. This was it.

He felt her inner walls begin to quiver, and he knew she must be close. Thank God, he thought, his own completion coming in faster than he was ready for. He reached between them and found her clitoris, rubbing tight circles in sync with his thrusts. He hoped to whatever deity was out there that she would come, because he was done for. The pressure built up within his balls and suddenly he was coming, hard, filling her, giving himself to her mind, body, and heart. _Take it, Scully, take everything I have. It's yours now. It always has been._

Eventually he came to, dead weight on top of Scully. She was drawing light circles in the middle of his sweaty back, humming softly into his ear.

"I love you, you know," she said quietly.

"It was pretty obvious," he muttered teasingly in return with a kiss to her forehead, rolling off of her and cradling her in his arms. "Did you…?"

"Mmm, yes. You did very admirably."

"Good," he said with a chuckle, "because I wasn't sure. Kind of lost control towards the end there."

"Me too."

Scully pushed herself up from the bed.

"Wait, where are you going?" he asked, grabbing at her arm.

"I'm sticky. I'm going to clean up."

"Oh, right." He nodded and laid back on the pillows as he watched her walk naked into the bathroom.

This is good, he thought, this is how it should be. This was right. He'd never felt freer in his life. He was hers. She loved him. The world felt right.

"Mulder?" he heard from behind the bathroom door as it opened.

"Yeah?"

"Did you…did you want to stay the night? Or if we leave now we might be able to get back by midnight. I'm not really sure where we are, though."

"You said you rented the room for the night, right? It's ours?"

"Yep. Ours 'til checkout."

He smiled. "I think that the town of Arenilla can wait a few hours for our return."

She gave him a demure smile as she walked back over to the bed.

"Not so fast, Scully," he said holding up his hand. "I think you mentioned earlier something about me needing a shower." There it was again, that shit-eating grin. But this time she didn't mind.

"You know, you're right," she responded. She knew exactly where he was going with this, her mind flying back to earlier in the evening… _would he take her against the shower wall_?

He shot up into the bathroom, pulling her along with him.

She found out that he would.


	2. Epilogue

They rose quite early the next morning with the sun, a tangle of limbs half in and half out of the bed sheets.

He hummed against her neck. "I could get used to waking up like this," he said groggily.

"Me too."

He pushed a lock of hair out of her face and kissed her soundly, morning breath be damned. Soon, too soon, she pushed him away.

"We need to get up and go. We don't know how long the drive is and we're probably going to miss our flight as it stands anyway."

"What better reason to stay here and reprise last night?" he countered.

"Get up, Mulder," she said, getting out of bed to search for her clothes. They got dressed in companionable silence, but not without Mulder trying to cop a feel or two. It couldn't be helped. Scully opened Pandora's box.

After checking out, they got directions. They really weren't too far off, maybe a four-hour drive. If they put the pedal to the metal, they'd make their eleven o'clock flight.

It was about two miles down the road when Scully realized they were going the wrong way. "We should have taken a left out of the parking lot, not a right."

They turned around and drove back in the direction they came. In the morning, the desert was pleasantly warm, not quite cool, and the soft blue of the morning sky made the scene tranquil.

"Shouldn't we have passed The Oasis already?" Mulder asked. "We've gone like four miles. We definitely should have passed it."

Scully looked at her map. He was right. They were on the correct road, and they definitely should have passed their hotel already. But they hadn't.

"Scully, what was it that Sheriff Juarez said about the case? I wasn't really listening. Tangible illusions, right?"

"Mulder, you can't be serious. I'm sure we passed it and we weren't paying attention."

"Come on, Scully! Think about it! A hotel in the middle of the desert that wasn't marked on the map! It has to be the only major landmark around. Why wouldn't it be on the map?"

"I don't know, because it's new?"

"That place wasn't new. It looked like it hadn't been updated in a decade."

"Scully," he said, taking her hand in his as they drove, "I think we might have just become victims six and seven."

"Don't be ridiculous. The Oasis was real. We were there. See, the car is even full of the gas we got from there."

"I'm not saying it's not real, Scully. I'm saying it's just not always there. It's there when it needs to be: a mirage."

She was speechless. What he was suggesting was crazy. Impossible. But then, so were most things he suggested.

"I think we should go back to Arenilla and re-interview the other victims. We'll need to call Skinner for a later flight out, tomorrow or even the next day."

She wanted to protest. She wanted to tell him that it was all ludicrous, but there was something to it, even if she didn't know what it was. The Oasis had been real, it had been, right? She was seized with a moment of panic.

"Mulder—Mulder…what happened last night…you and me. That was real, right?"

He turned his head slightly as not to take his eyes totally off the road.

"Of course it was. Why wouldn't it have been?"

"Because if the hotel wasn't real, I just thought…"

"The hotel was real, Scully. This is real," he said, gesturing between them. "We are real."

"Good," she said, squeezing his hand.

A couple more days in Arenilla wouldn't be so bad, she thought. They'd definitely run into Linda again, but you know what? She could eat her heart out.


End file.
